In the wind, in the sea, whispering hate, heresy; quietly accusing me. Voices. Those voices, all I hear are voices. In the marsh, in the sky, firing curses in my eyes, cutting me with razor lies. Voices. The sun steps down to dance on the armour, now rusted and brittle like September leaves. Through the odor of decaying man-piles, I know someone's listening, waiting for me. Christine, you haunt me - you cling like a limpet. The ghost of your pulse hammers nails in my head. We all sold our souls for a handful of ashes. We gambled together, the blame should be shared. In the wind, in the sea, whispering hate, heresy; quietly accusing me. Voices. Voices.
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